


Magic

by TheMagicMeep



Series: Trust and a lack thereof [9]
Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Established Relationship, F/M, Fae & Fairies, Hurt/Comfort, Mild Horror
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-19
Updated: 2013-12-19
Packaged: 2018-01-05 05:06:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,483
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1089945
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheMagicMeep/pseuds/TheMagicMeep
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>France goes exploring but it really doesn't go to plan</p>
            </blockquote>





	Magic

**Author's Note:**

  * For [losthitsu](https://archiveofourown.org/users/losthitsu/gifts).



> This was written for losthitsu who gave me the prompt "magic" ages ago. 
> 
> I'm not sure this is anything close to what you wanted but there was an attempt. Also I can't for the life of me write scary stuff.

Magic isn’t simple Scotland had once explained with much waving of her hands, its more than incense, muttering nonsense and making a mess of the floor with chalk runes. You have to _feel_ it she said. But just what you were meant to feel, she didn’t say and he didn’t ask.   

He almost wishes he had now, if he had perhaps he would know what to do now there is something uncanny closing in on him and the world seems suddenly _different_. Things he had lived his life believing were not real were suddenly chasing him and impossible to ignore.

France has caught a glimpse of neither hide nor hair of his pursuer, but he can hear the heavy footsteps closing in on him and with it comes a feeling of dread that curls deep in his gut and closes frozen hands around his heart.

There are soft whispers beside him as well and laughter accompanied by small hands and claws that tear at his face and hair. They are trying to slow him down he reckons and make it easier for whatever is chasing him to catch up.   

He only knows that he _cannot_ let himself be caught.

So he runs tripping and stumbling over rough ground and hidden bogs, his breath coming in heaving gasps in the ice cold air and the freezing wind and rain cut right to his bones. But if he finds Scotland he will be safe and it’s this hope that keeps him running through the night.

The fog around him is thick enough to make it impossible to see more than his hand in front of his face and he ruthlessly buries the fear that he will never find her. Along with the awful thought that they had got to her first and the only way he would ever find her was to trip over her body.

Fear keeps him moving and though being a nation means he is able to keep up this terrified flight far longer than a human would have even he has limits. Inevitably France’s foot catches on some hidden trap and he trips, hitting the ground with a force that drives the air from his lungs. His head catches on a bolder and the world goes blessedly dark.

When he comes to again mere seconds later it is to the sound of cruel whispering laughter. France spits mud and blood and shakes his head in a desperate attempt to clear it. Sodden blonde hair clings to his neck and falls into his eyes and it takes more effort than he would admit to turn around to face the approaching heavy footsteps.

The fall had damaged his ankle and his vision is fuzzy from the knock to the head but he is too far from his own lands to heal quickly enough to escape. He can’t run France realises with an eerie sort of calm, so he must fight if he has any chance of leaving this place.   

France is no coward, despite what England might say, and he refuses to die like one. So he drags himself painfully to his feet, ignoring the mutters of the fae around him and faces the dark figure approaching through the wall of grey mist. As it gets closer its unnatural tallness becomes clearer and clearer but France stands firm, though he shuts his eyes and takes a slow deep breath.

Both nation and “creatures” jump when the voice comes from the depths of the fog. He doesn’t recognise it at first, the uncanny nature of the surroundings and the language being spoken warping the familiar voice into something older and far darker. But it is Scotland who slips through the wall of fog and Frances relief almost makes him even more lightheaded.

Scotland grasps his hand in hers, squeezing it and shooting France what she hopes is a reassuring smile. Then she shuts her eyes, her face sharpening in focus as the air around him thickens and some otherworldly force crackles around them. It’s a form of shield she conjures he guesses, pale and shimmering it creates a barrier around the nations and bathes them all in a soft glow.  

France pulls back warily, sitting down on a rock and trying to banish the small voice whispering “witch” at the back of his skull. But if this is magic than it is beautiful and despite his reservations- drummed into him over centuries- he cannot tear his eyes away.

The yammering fae claw weakly at the barrier, watching him with hungry yellow eyes and the “creature” -whatever it may be- hides in its protective fog watching intently, but Scotland merely regards them with scorn, power gathered around her fingertips and scowling.

“What the fuck did I tell you lot?” she snarls, all fierce green eyes and windswept red hair “leave him be”.  The whispers rise again and France has the distinct impression that they are trying to defend themselves, like children who know that they are in the wrong but can’t bare to admit it.

Scotland is however having none of it and silences them all with a sharp “enough!” The fae cower under her poisonous glare and even the huge figure hidden in the mist looks wary. “If I ever catch you doing anything like this again” Scotland hisses warningly “then you’ll realise just how cruel I can be”.

Scotland’s wrath is a terrifying thing and the fae flee before it, the lumbering figure in the mist finally slips away after receiving its own warning delivered in a tone so cold and flat that it made even France shudder - “that goes for you too. Remember well whose mountains these are”.

She turns to him slowly after making sure they were alone and sighs, “I thought I told you not to wander off alone?”

“You did” France admits with an attempt at a charming smile and a shrug “I didn’t listen”.

Scotland settles down next to him to gently wipe the blood away from his face. “The fae don’t know what to do with you” she explains quietly “that’s why I asked you to not wander off. Especially not here”.

“Consider the lesson learned” France mutters wincing as her fingers brush over a particularly sore spot. He feels sudden warmth where Scotland’s hands touch, it brings to mind nights huddled in cosy blankets with a warm body in his arms. It’s comfortable and France finds himself relaxing into it, he even makes a low disappointed sound when she pulls back.

Its only when the cold returns that he realises that the ache in his head is gone.

“Anywhere else?” asks Scotland, her voice soft and face turned away from him. France is tempted to lie and save her the bother of healing the proof of his clumsiness but he knows well that when he tries to walk he will only hobble and Scotland will spot it immediately.

“I may have twisted my ankle” he admits reluctantly and watches as Scotland slips off the rock to check his ankle. She prods at it, snorts at his answering yelp then presses that wonderful warmth into his skin again.

 When it is done Scotland’s eyes flicker uncertainly to his face and she looks relieved when he only smiles and murmurs a thank you.

“Now”, Scotland gets to her feet and makes a brave attempt to brush the mud off her clothes, “let’s get home before something else decides it doesn’t like you”.  

“Is that likely?”

“It gets more likely the longer you hang about here and whinge” this was accompanied by a very pointed look that forced France to get up, his joints bitterly protesting the cold all the way.

 Once up he wound an arm around Scotland’s shoulders and for the entire long walk back to the relative safety of Scotland’s beat up old landrover he kept snatching glances backwards utterly certain that they were being watched.

It’s only when they are in the car and have put miles between them and that damned place that France relaxes back into his seat with a quiet sigh.

“When we get back” he says slowly, watching as the dark landscape passes by outside his window, “I can show you how thankful I am for your rescue”.

“I could hardly let you be eaten by the fae now could I?” Scotland replies as she takes a hand off the wheel to toss him a bag of boiled sweeties from the depths of her glove compartment, “now sook on one of those and stop worrying”.

She won’t say that she will spent the next few days (when France is not showing his _appreciation_ ) creating a charm to keep something like this from ever happening again.

Back on the side of the mountain the nations had just left glittering eyes watch closely till the lights of the landrover vanish into the distance.    

**Author's Note:**

> Here to those who care the figure in the mist chasing France is based on this- http://www.biggreyman.co.uk/legend.html  
> and heres the wikipedia article here- http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Am_Fear_Liath_M%C3%B2r
> 
> I just find it really interesting I'm sorry.


End file.
